i write about film, sometimes.

Monthly Archives: January 2016

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Whew. It’s perhaps interesting to note that this was the least amount of films I saw in a cinema within a single year, since the beginning of these film journals. In other words, for the last 5 years, really. I suppose life gets in the way? Or is it the other way around?

Why do I feel the need to constantly question my life decisions? Regardless, 37 films is still a lot, but I did miss out on some stuff that I really wanted to catch up on for one reason or another (The Martian, Bridge of Spies, The Duke of Burgundy, Mommy, Eden, Beasts of No Nation, to name a few), but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.

You’ll see a lot of B’s and A’s in this list: I guess that’s what happens when you have to already be very selective with what you pay money to see. If I had to fill a quota of something like 100 films, I’m sure there’d be a much more even spread. But oh well, life is short!

Perhaps not surprisingly, more of my time went into watching some of the incredible TV shows that are out there – sometimes I think it’s a shame that I don’t have a separate journal to talk about those, but then again, I’d probably never get to leave the house.

Some of those TV shows include Bojack Horseman, Fargo, Transparent, Master of None, Rick & Morty, Show Me A Hero, Silicon Valley, Girls, Louie, Mad Men – there was a lot of amazing TV. Storytelling is only getting richer, fuller and more exciting with each year that goes by.

But anyway, without further ado, my personal top 10 favourite films of the year.

TOP 10 FAVOURITE FILMS OF 2015 (in alphabetical order):

AMY

THE CLUB

CREED

THE END OF THE TOUR

FOXCATCHER

JAMES WHITE

THE LOBSTER

THE LOOK OF SILENCE

SICARIO

TEHRAN TAXI

Are there any themes linking these films? Guilt, ego, delusion and jealousy seem to pop up here or there – I don’t think they ever cease to be fascinating to me. Interestingly, as a contrast to last year, all of these films are quite dark – the closest thing we have to a romantic film is probably The Lobster, which says a lot.

But perhaps what connects these films to each other the strongest, is how they all give us a view into ourselves, and the state of the world we live in. What drives us, torments us, what prevents us to change and become better people. What these films might have in common is to say that all of us are simultaneously the victims and the perpetrators – we feel pain, and yet inflict it upon others – in our own stories, in our own lives. When it really comes down to it, do we have what it takes to accept it and move forward?

The companion piece to Joshua Oppenheimer’s last documentary The Act of Killing, Silence is yet another piece of brave, harrowing filmmaking that not only manages to be engaging, but ultimately finds itself in the elusive category of being a real document of human history. It’s a difficult film to stomach, but necessary viewing to perhaps understand the world a bit more, to see the effects of fear, hate, authority and rejection of responsibility that led to a genocide of more than a million civilians in Indonesia. No one sees themselves as an evil person, as the film argues, but anyone can assert that same evil onto their neighbours. Can we forgive those that have committed atrocities, that have murdered, and tortured, under the pretence that they were simply following orders, not knowing any better? Can we forgive ourselves for continuing our lives, not doing anything about it? Can we really resolve ourselves of guilt, and if so, at what cost? This is not simply a film about evil, but a film about being human. It’s a part of all of us, and it’s only up to us to be able to open our eyes and face up to our actions past, present and future.

Star Wars, the cinematic behemoth. The meaning of pop culture. The religion of the new age. I decided to base my judgement of The Force Awakens on whether or not it was better than the prequel trilogy that preceded it. Thank my lucky Millennium Falcon, it was. When you have the childhoods of millions of people in the palm of your hand, it’s in your best interest not to Jar-Jar Binks it, and J.J. Abrams would’ve known that from the beginning. A sort of New Hope for millennials, Episode VII has the winning formula in spades, with solid action sequences and a surprising amount of humour that felt both traditional and fresh at the same time. Whilst I thought the dialogue was at times a bit hammy and clunky, I instantly thought of the five year olds who would be running around, reenacting these scenes – brought back down to Earth, I remembered that these films are meant to be for everybody, and for everybody they are.

It doesn’t quite reinvent the wheel, instead feeling more like an homage to the past and a set-up for the future, Episode VII does do precisely what it probably wanted to do in the first place: make every single person in the audience feel like a kid again, watching Star Wars for the first time. Oh, and make over $1.5 billion in the box office.

Mississippi Grind is like drinking a bottle of bourbon: it’s warm, familiar, and you know you’re gonna have a pretty good time until you’re about two-thirds of the way through. But you’re gonna still drink it all the way, aren’t you? Because hey, life’s short, and by the end of it, you’ll most likely know more about yourself, and what you’re capable of. You’ll face your demons, and maybe you’ll call an ex-girlfriend. Maybe your parents. Reality can hard to face, but maybe it’s for the best if you’re happy to just sit there and drink a bottle of bourbon, right? But maybe you don’t need to change, or even want to. Maybe you are the bottle of bourbon. Drink up.

It’s no secret that Jennifer Lawrence and David O’Russell are made for each other. Without batting an eyelid, Lawrence can transform effortlessly from comedy to drama, a method O’Russell’s films always seem to prescribe to. Joy is certainly no exception to the rule, and yet, upon viewing the film there were some discernible differences to his previous films that made it feel like a David O’Russell film, but perhaps without the best parts. Most notably, this is his first film in a while that rests it’s weight predominately on the shoulders of it’s protagonist, rather than an ensemble cast. It also spans over more than two decades, rather than anchoring itself around a single moment or period of time.

It’s a relatively biographical story about Joy Mangano, a woman who exceeded against all odds, which were mostly in the shape of other people. So much of the film’s running time is Joy being constantly put down, slandered, ignored and disrespected from almost all angles. While this may be true to life, and raises the stakes of her journey, I couldn’t help but feel like it created such a black-and-white tone for the whole film, where we could only sympathise with the one character, because the rest were made out to be so awful, bordering on cartoonish. I’m not saying Joy is a bad film by any means – the performances are spot on and it looks stunning the whole way through, but it felt like we were treated to what felt like half of what a David O’Russell film can be: a sweeping, musical world of complex, deeply funny and unpredictable characters that feels more true to life than this biographical film ever did.

What could I possibly say about Tangerine that hasn’t already been mentioned? The little engine that could, Tangerine fires on all cylinders from the get go, with an infectious energy that practically bursts off the screen. Indie filmmakers everywhere surely must have let out a collective sigh of relief, knowing that a feature film produced for $100,000 and shot entirely on iPhones could still make it’s way around the world. But the magic of the film doesn’t bank on it’s use of technology – as it shouldn’t – but on the esoteric nature of it’s characters, story, and style. Clocking in at a brisk 88-minute running time, Tangerine somehow balances moments of complete hysteria and comedy with moments of pain and vulnerability, crafted by incredible performances and fully-realised, complex characters. This is one of the most authentic portrayals of Los Angeles I’ve ever seen. This film is Los Angeles.

Just two years ago, Ryan Coogler made his feature film debut with Fruitvale Station, which had, as I wrote about in 2013, “naturalistic and compelling dialogue, [with] warm, complex characters. The fact that this is a directorial debut absolutely astounds me. Ryan Coogler and Michael B. Jordan are destined for greatness.” Cut to the present, and Coogler and Jordan are back, guns blazing. When I see the work they do, I’m so thrilled by the fact that there continues to be young, fresh filmmakers that set the bar exceedingly high with each film they put out. The writing, direction and performances are just so beautiful, that I can’t help but feel like Creed has become my favourite Rocky film by far. It manages to do what all of the previous films in the series seemed to struggle with: it makes you truly care about the characters.

Coogler brings real warmth and sensitivity into the story, bringing Sylvester Stallone back from the dead, and basically reminding us that we still have actual affection for the underdog story. This film is a hundred-percent determination, and it never lets up. Shot beautifully by Maryse Alberti (The Wrestler), Creed feels so incredibly human the whole way through: a sense of pain and longing, but with a pace that that keeps you glued to the screen. Easily the most emotional I’ve been in a cinema, since seeing the Amy Winehouse documentary. Ryan Coogler is set to next direct the Black Panther film for Marvel, confirming that he’s certainly not the underdog anymore.

I had a quick trace back through previous journals to see what I rated the other three entries of the Hunger Games series, to see how they stacked up against each other. I rated Catching Fire, the second film in the series the highest, at a B+. I liked that they raised the stakes of the first film, and made the original story expand into greater territory, much like the Harry Potter series would go on to do. Suddenly, the decision was made to split the last book, Mockingjay, into two separate parts. Harry Potter did it, and did it rather well. But that’s Harry Potter, which probably unto forever, will be heralded as a cultural treasure.

Where else has the novel-to-two-film formula really paid off? We have to try and forget the three films in the The Hobbit trilogy, and people might have already forgotten which part of Breaking Dawn they hated more. With respect to The Hunger Games, they committed one-hundred percent to maintaining the look of the dystopian world of Panem, and as far as I remember, the story does find endings for all of it’s characters. But if we are to look at the series as a sum of it’s parts, I can’t help but feel so disappointed by what was meant to be the climax of the series, after having such a strong start.

Now, I don’t mean that in a way to suggest that I had an issue with the ending itself, but Mockingjay Part 2 just didn’t actually feel like The Hunger Games. It felt like a slasher film, and treated the characters like a slasher film would. The film moved in a way to conveniently push the plot forward, with things never resolving out of character action or logic, but through absolute arbitrary coincidence. I felt like you could put any of the first three quarters of the film into any order, and it wouldn’t make any difference. There was never consequence, or momentum – just a character or two getting picked off during a CGI-heavy set piece. I understand if the underlying message of the films is to say how pointless and cyclical war is, but you can still do that without making the actual films themselves just as pointless to watch.

To this day, I haven’t ready any of The Hunger Games novels, but I’ve been told some adjustments to the story have been made to the film adaptations, which doesn’t surprise me, but makes me want to know what they are, because I have to believe that it’s better than what ended up in this film. This is the most I’ve written about any of the films this year, and it’s unfortunate that most of it’s negative, but it’s not meant to be scathing, but just an expression of my own frustration because I know that Hollywood can do better than this. I had high hopes, which sadly crumbled before my eyes, with this disjointed, messy film. Ah well – at least we still have Harry Potter.

With two films released in the same year, Noah Baumbach could be the most productive director working at the moment. Following While We’re Young, Mistress America slots itself effortlessly into Baumbach’s previous explorations of growth and maturation, self-inflicted anxieties and disappointments – continuing his interest in the ongoing “coming-of-age-that-never-ends” that we all experience. Once again, Greta Gerwig injects a shot of puppy-dog adrenaline into her performance, at any time instilling responses of joy, loathing and sympathy. Noted as a screwball comedy by many reviewers – a genre that was at it’s height during the 1930’s and 40’s – Mistress America does feel like a throwback to the storytelling of early Hollywood, with farcical situations and rapid-fire dialogue that people should be able to enjoy once they let go of the idea that Mistress America is trying to present reality. It becomes clear that Mistress America is but an acknowledgement of cinema, a representation of reality that audiences can let go and lose themselves in the story and the characters, before the river runs dry and we finally do have to grow up.

Within the first five minutes of seeing The Lobster, it becomes abundantly clear that it’s a film like no other. It occupies so many genres, whether it be comedy, drama, sci-fi, fantasy, satire – all situated in a dystopian near-future world much like our own, that almost forces us to laugh, if at least, to tell ourselves that these situations couldn’t possibly happen to us. But depending on who you are, you can either cackle obliviously along to the absurdity of the characters and plot, or you can stare in horror as you see what the filmmakers are trying to show us through these exaggerations: the truth about our world, our society, and the terror of isolation and exclusion that comes with our existence, and need for companionship. This is what director Yorgos Lanthimos has crafted, as his first film about love. Is it optimistic, pessimistic, or absolutely crazy? Probably all of the above. But that’s what makes Lanthimos such a compelling director, and The Lobster such an idiosyncratic film: he applies the theory of film being both a mirror and a magnifying glass, and then absolutely burns the subject into a fiery hell. His films don’t have heroes, they have victims – and isn’t that who we all see ourselves as?